


Arranged

by TyyTyy



Category: Boruto: Naruto Next Generations
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Denial of Feelings, F/M, Fluff and Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-15 04:33:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29058294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TyyTyy/pseuds/TyyTyy
Summary: A gift written for @lpsmise on Twitter, winner of my fic giveaway!Duke Boruto and Lady Sarada inspired by Bridgerton!
Relationships: Uchiha Sarada/Uzumaki Boruto
Comments: 3
Kudos: 28





	Arranged

**Author's Note:**

> I had so much fun writing this! Sorry for the wait. Thank you for entering my giveaway! <3

The social season approaches quickly. With it comes many preparations, especially for a young lady just coming of age. Sarada Uchiha lives in the heart of London, surrounded by the elite of society, brandished in riches thanks to her noble family who are no strangers to the royal family. 

It’s the day Sarada will first meet the queen herself, and she’s nervous. However, she’s also filled with elation, confident the queen will approve of her, just as her family is certain. Sarada is a young lady who carries herself with pride, and what’s more, she is well-taught in the customs of nobility. She wishes never to bring shame to the Uchiha, her family name which is so well-respected in her homeland. Her parents never make her feel as if she has a weight to bear for her family, nor do her uncles whom she’s very close to. It’s her own thoughts that bear down on her.

Her mother’s voice is but a soft, melodious hum that vibrates around her. Sarada stands still, staring straight ahead at herself in the mirror while her mother works behind her to lace her linen corset. She never quite fancies them, though she’s become used to them by now. There is a new one that’s silk-satin her mother informed her will be worn with her dress for the next formal event—the event where she will meet many potential suitors. 

The lacings are tight, but not overly so as some mother’s force upon their marriageable daughters. Her hair is brushed and braided. Her dress is an off-white, a color her mother assures her represents purity. It’s accentuated in intricate patterns of gold, woven into the material by the hand of a most-trusted seamstress. The colors are not any Sarada prefers, but she does not complain. 

She’s presented to the queen merely hours later following numerous other young ladies. Sarada walks with poise, smiles politely, curtsies respectively, and the Queen, Tsunade, approaches her while she has not for any young lady before her. It’s a moment that fills Sarada with pride, not for herself, but because she knows that her mother standing next to her is brimming with joy, just as she knows her father and her uncles watching from elsewhere in the room are just as pleased.

It’s just the following weekend that the first ball of the season is held. Sarada’s ball gown is strapless, with her corset bodice and a long, flared satin skirt with a sheer overlay. It’s a warm pink that transcends into red at the bottom, a color that suits the spring season. Flowers adorn her hair. Her lips are stained red, a color deep and vibrant, one that will undoubtedly grab the attention of anyone who glances her way. 

“You look breathtaking, darling,” her mother says as she moves to stand before her, viridian eyes flitting over her daughter’s face, her slender throat, exposed collarbones, and finally the dress that compliments her so well. “Any lord or prince would be blessed to have your hand.”

A bright smile that radiates sheer warmth touches Sarada’s face and she leans in to embrace her mother, both keenly aware of all the work that’s gone into her appearance, and thus they’re careful not to wrinkle her dress or allow a single hair to fall free from the many pins keeping it in place. Her makeup is limited, merely the rouge on her lips and a faint touch of powder on her nose. 

Sarada, like most girls, has fantasized about the romance awaiting her. She’s imagined a suitor that compliments her in every way, a princely man who carries himself with confidence and strength, much like the men in her family. She envisions him as a man who will bring her happiness, even in the darkest of times. He’s nameless and faceless for now, but she’s hopeful. Tonight could be the night that changes her life forever. 

…

The ball is grand and lavish, everyone who is anyone is there. Sarada’s parents wish her a lovely evening and go ahead of her and her uncles who both have announced they will be escorting her for the evening. They’re overprotective, yet at the same time, they’re also hoping for her to find a proper suitor, while both being determined to turn away anyone they feel is not to their standards.

“Please do not offend anyone,” Sarada says to them as the three make their way into the open ballroom. 

Various nobles are filling the room, music in the form of a harp playing from the west corner, a soft tune that plays just in the background, heard just so behind the many mingling voices in the room. For the time being, at least. It’s exciting for Sarada, seeing the many colors and styles of formal attire amongst those in attendance. She recognizes some friends and acquaintances, though the majority of people are strangers to her. 

Sarada can feel eyes upon her, not so much judging as they’re appraising her. Word has spread of the queen’s kind words in regards to her. They’re expectant, curious, eager to meet her for themselves. However, the more suitors who look to her, the more ladies do as well, and their eyes are not fond in the slightest. They’re cold and filled with bitter jealousy. Those looks threaten to shake her resolve. Sarada has never wished to make enemies in her journey for love, but not everyone thinks the same. She’s looked at as if she’s a threat, and many potential suitors are swayed by other ladies who are determined to reach them before her. 

The first hour of the ball deteriorated greatly, going from something beautiful and promising to an event filled with despair. Sarada’s uncles do their utmost to ease her concerns, chiding her when she sinks her teeth into her lower lip, laying a reassuring hand upon her shoulder when her posture droops in the slightest. Not a single suitor has approached her, and she begins to wonder if it’s due to the other ladies and their condescending looks, or her uncles who constantly hover by her sides.

“I wish to be alone for a time,” she tells them when her anxiety peaks. They want to protest, she knows by the way their expressions shift—how their faces fall with worry and their lips part, ready to convince her to remain by their sides. Sarada does now give them the chance, she hastily curtsies to them and excuses herself.

She’s rushing away from them the next instant, torn between somehow escaping the ball entirely just to catch a breath of fresh air, and hiding in a corner somewhere until the whole thing is completed. Sarada doesn’t get far before she barrels straight into someone. She nearly tumbled over from the impact. This person—this man—he was barely budged when she ran into him full-force. He’s taller than her by a head, scowling at her with blue eyes that steal the breath right out of her lungs. He has the face of a storybook prince, beautiful golden hair, perfect structure; all of him. 

Yet he looks at her as if she’s the bane of his existence.

“Padon me,” she hurries to say once she’s recovered her equilibrium. Sarada bows slightly to show she’d earnest in her apology, but when she peers back up at him, his scowl remains and it makes her puff out her cheeks. “It was an accident. I apologized properly. Must you look at me in such a way?”

“Must you not watch where you are going?” He rebuts with a click of his tongue and dusts off his high-cut, royal-blue coat as if she has somehow soiled him. 

“I beg your pardon. Is that any way to speak to a lady?” Sarada is filled with righteous fury, regardless if she’s supposed to speak up for herself at such an event in a manner such as this, she cares not.

The blond man scoffs at her and averts his narrowed blue eyes as if he can’t stand to gaze upon her a moment longer. “Am I supposed to believe you are a proper lady with that behavior?”

Sarada has never in her life felt so utterly disrespected. Her fists clench at her sides, open, and clench again, harder. The look she gives him mirrors his own expression, one of disgust. The one suitor she runs into—and almost finds attractive—treats her like  _ this?  _

“Just who are you to think you have a right to speak to me as if I am so far beneath you?” If she wasn’t a proper lady, she would have already turned one of his whiskered cheeks pink with an open palm. 

“Tch. As if you do not know who I am.”

The audacity of the man impresses Sarada as much as it baffles her. Before she can respond, her uncles appear once again. It is not her they greet though, but the rude man standing just next to her.

“Your Grace,” Itachi says and the title had Sarada’s obsidian eyes widening a fraction. Her breath hitches in her throat and she clamps her mouth shut as she watches the blond’s annoyance morph into something softer, almost pleasant. Almost beautiful. That smile is dazzling, not that she would ever admit it. He extends his hand first, and Itachi takes it, shaking it first before Shisui follows suit. “I see you’ve met my niece, Lady Sarada?”

“Niece?” His blue eyes return to Sarada, giving her a quizzical once over. “Mm. We happened to bump into one another.” He smirks at her then, in a way that’s chilling enough to make her shudder in response. 

“My dear, Sarada, bumping into the Duke?” 

_ The Duke. _

“Yes, well… It was unfortunate.” She does not try to hide the bitterness upon her tongue, but she smiles at him in a way that’s both challenging and pretty. 

“Indeed.” The Duke agrees without a bit of hesitation and once again, Sarada has the urge to burn her hand by swatting his annoying face.

…

The ball is the first time Sarada and The Duke, whom she learns from her mother is Boruto Uzumaki, meet, but it is certainly not the last. This fact is one Sarada accepts begrudgingly when they run into one again during the next social gathering; a charity event hosted by the Yamanaka’s.

“Is there a reason you continue to lour at The Duke, Sarada?” Inojin asks, ever the curious one. He and Sarada are seated next to one another, having refreshments amongst other friends. It’s nice to be surrounded by those she’s familiar with.

She’s caught, but merely sighs and looks away from the blond to the other one at her side. “He’s quite rude. I assume he’s here prowling for a lady to wed.” She snorts at the thought, feeling terrible for any lady who would succumb to such a fate. 

Inojin hums, a telling smile that’s nothing short of sly playing on his face. “Actually, if the tales are true, it would seem The Duke has no interest in marriage—but his parents are encouraging him to settle down.” 

The news brings a frown to her face. While her parents do wish the same for her, they’ve never forced it upon her, she’s seeking it herself. Her dark eyes continue to follow Boruto for some time, and for the life of her, she can’t quite come to figure him out.

…

A week later, they meet again, though this time it is at her home over dinner where The Duke is seated just next to her, sipping wine and looking impossibly smug. 

“Can you not keep your eyes off of me for even a moment?” He says to her casually, blue eyes locking on hers. 

She does not flush. She fumes. “Can you not keep your mind off of me?” She bites back and raises her flute to her lips. His presence is beyond annoying, but as they say, things always become worse before they can become better.

It is news to the both of them that their parents are friends, close enough to care to break bread together privately. Even Sarada’s uncles are not present. Just she, Boruto, and their parents. They’ve finished dinner and are sitting over dessert when the suggestion arises. It’s Boruto’s father that speaks.

“Sarada, Her Majesty has spoken highly of you, and we’re aware you’re seeking a proper suitor. There is none more appropriate than Boruto.” 

Sarada nearly drops the glass in her hand. It’s saved only by Boruto swiftly and smoothly swiping it away from her hand. 

“How lovely of you to recommend me, Father,” Boruto smiles at Naruto, but a glance proves he is far from happy. 

There is no help from Sarada’s parents. She nor Boruto are able to say anything more before their parents begin speaking excitedly about the prospect of their marriage. Their fates are decided for them then and there, at least until they concoct a plan to get out of it.

“I could not possibly wed  _ you, _ ” Boruto says while scratching his chin pensively. 

He i’s thinking. Sarada is panicked. She’s no help, only desperate to find true love, and not be forced into being with someone are uncouth as The Duke.

“What shall we do?” She asks with a tone softer than she’s ever used when addressing him. He barely bats a lash at the revelation. 

“This could be advantageous for both of us,” he decides with a nod. “It could buy me some time, keep my parents from breathing down my neck, and in return, I can help introduce you to some proper suitors.”

“Really?” Sarada lights up at that, hands grasping onto his biceps as she bounces on her feet.

The Duke stumbles back, appearing horrified at the change in demeanor. “Calm yourself, woman!” 

Despite the order, Sarada continues to hold onto him and giggle excitedly. She supposed Boruto cannot be so bad if he’s willing to work with her on this.

…

They have to play the part. Sarada is unbothered by this. She has no issue taking his arm, smiling at his side, or dancing as his partner. In the next couple of weeks, Sarada comes to know The Duke on a deeper level. Not so deeply that she can truly say she  _ knows  _ him, but enough to say she has seen him smile a sincere smile. She has witnessed his kindness as opposed to the brash nature she’d begun to associate him with. She has learned Boruto is intelligent, a man of many talents, as well as a man with a soft spot for children. 

One day while they’re together—because, of course, they must keep up appearances—Boruto brings her to a small orphanage he explains he’s recently begun funding. Sarada is admittingly a bit apprehensive at first, knows not why he’d bring her to such a place. She finds there’s a building being constructed just next to the one he guides her into. It is small and tattered. They have barely entered the drawing-room before the sound of many tiny feet with hastened steps are heard. 

“It’s Boruto! He’s back!”

Sarada looks to the blond standing next to her in surprise. The child’s outburst comes before he’s even seen, but he merely smiles and briefly meets her gaze. 

“This orphanage is not only in a bad location, but the overall appearance of it turns away any potential adoptive parents. These children rarely get visitors.” 

The news tugs at Sarada’s heartstrings. She frowns and swallows hard. “That is unfortunate… Boruto?” It’s the first time she’s heard anyone address him as his given name. He just smiles again. 

“Here, I am just Boruto.”

Sarada learns that she likes just Boruto. She likes him a little too much. He’s not the same. Just Boruto and The Duke are two entirely different individuals, and yet they are one and the same. With the children—who all have such varied and comical personalities—Boruto laughs. He  _ really  _ laughs, and he does it a lot. His eyes are bright in a way Sarada has never noticed before. He smiles a lot. Too much. A smile that somehow melts her. He runs with them as if he’s a child himself, even dances and sings, and Sarada cannot get enough of it.

When they are departing in the carriage later that evening, Sarada unconsciously rests her head upon his shoulder and says, “I wish to visit the children again when you return.”

And when just Boruto returns to the orphanage, just Sarada is by his side.

…

It doesn’t hit her until it happens. 

Boruto collects her early one afternoon and Sarada excitedly takes his hand to enter his carriage. They’ve been frequenting the orphanage often and she’s always looking forward to their return. 

“I hope the children are well today,” she says as the carriage pulls away. Boruto is settled by her side, but his posture is stiff, noticeably so. She’s curious to what is plaguing him but decides to try and distract him instead of questioning it. There’s a basket she’s brought along that rests upon her lap and she pats it to draw his attention. “I brought snacks.”

“We’re not seeing the children today,” Boruto replies, tone curt. Sarada isn’t sure if it’s the tone or the words themselves that leaves her crestfallen.

“Oh? Then… where are we off to?”

“I have a council with the Prince of Kiri. He is respectable, handsome, and kind… he is… everything you should be searching for. I believe it is time I’ve upheld my end of our agreement.”

When it hits her, the weight is unbearable, like two tons of lead suddenly dropped upon her body, like an unexpected tidal wave, large enough to wipe out an entire city, like an endless pit of darkness swallowing her whole. 

Sarada is still seeking a proper suitor. 

Boruto is not the man she will marry.

And yet… somehow… she had foolishly forgotten their agreement. For weeks, she has known nothing more than Boruto and learning of who he truly is as a person—and how much she likes that person.

She almost asks if that is really his wish, but the pain she feels is too great for her to even find her voice.

When they arrive at the palace, Boruto exits the carriage first and Sarada follows. She accepts his offered hand as always, and once her feet touch the ground, the heaviness is back and she finds she cannot move. Her head bows, eyes downcast. She’s filled with emotions unbidden. Fierce, formidable, and raw. She feels as if her throat is closing up, chest aching deeply, as if her very soul has been affected by this turn of events. She only realizes she’s not breathing once she’s suddenly backed against the carriage by The Duke himself. 

He seems to tower over her, larger than life itself, strong and familiar, and yet not hers. Never hers. 

“I am not the one for you, Sarada,” the words are quiet, spoken from a broken voice in desperation, a plea for understanding. Sarada’s eyes open wide to peer into his. She does not understand. How can she? “I never meant… it was never my intention to…”

“To what?” The question is barely audible, but it’s spoken just loudly enough for him to hear thanks to their proximity. 

“To let you fall in love with me,” he whispers, averts his eyes, closes them, and sighs deeply. “To let myself fall in love with you.”

The confession is not lost on her. The world suddenly feels as if it’s spinning at light speed. Sarada nearly faints, loses her balance despite not moving an inch, and then she’s in his arms, held against his chest, secured in a place she never wishes to escape. 

“You are far from a proper lady. You are so unbearable  _ trying _ and impossibly vexatious. You know not when to hold your tongue, nor do you care much for your appearance on average… but I still think you to be the most beautiful lady I have ever met. And even though I do not like so many things about you… I have come to love you. All of you. So I just cannot hand you over.”

“You are such a fool,” she whispers, tears brimming in her eyes, but she knows she is also. They are a couple of fools in love, sharing their first kiss and not letting go until the prince himself comes to pull them apart.

He is everything Boruto said he would be, except for one thing. He is not what she should or would ever be looking for, as she has already found that.

  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
